


the afternoon, the evening; the cups, the tea

by twobirdsonesong



Series: Prufrock Verse [13]
Category: CrissColfer - Fandom, Glee RPF
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Established Relationship, Fandom Trumps Hate, M/M, Prufrock verse, Romance, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-19 00:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: They don't have much time, but Chris and Darren find a few days to hide away during the Carnival of Basel in Switzerland.This story exists as a part of the Prufrock 'verse, but can be read as a stand-alone fic.Written for theFandom Trumps Hate auction, won bystopandimaginelove.Thanks to alittledizzy and accidentalaccoustics for reading it over.





	

_among some talk of you and me..._

 

*******

“You’re crazy.”

 

“You say that so often I think it means _I love you_.”  Darren looked up from his laptop with a grin.  Chris sat on the other end of the couch, frowning at his own glowing screen and not responding.  Darren scrunched his nose. “Not so much?”

 

“This is a Bad Idea,” Chris commented instead, tapping at the keyboard with impatient fingers.

 

“Did you say that with all caps, or did I just hear it that way?”

 

“Are you going to be serious about this at all?”

 

Darren gestured at the screen even though Chris was still not looking at him.  “I am being serious about this.  I’ve got our flights all mapped out.  Look.  You leave from New York before I do, with a layover in Paris.  I’ll leave from LA since I’m going to be there anyway and fly to London and then hop the rest of the way.  I also found a sweet place on AirBnB instead of a hotel.  It’s a whole flat, see? Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. It’s like an artist’s retreat or something.  Central, but not directly on the procession route so it’ll be a little quieter. It’s perfect.  They even have a lockbox thing for the keys so we don’t have to meet the host if we don’t want to, but she’s like a 65-year-old grandmother so I kind of want to meet her anyway.  It’s not like she’s going to call TMZ. Probably.”

 

Chris finally looked up, looked at Darren, and he sighed.  He could see it in Darren’s eyes, his whole body - the anxious leg, the thumb nail set between his teeth he carefully didn’t chew - that he wanted to do this.  He had probably been thinking about it far longer than he would ever let on.

 

Chris was fully aware he was considered by some a wet blanket, that his approach to his life, their lives, was filled was caution and reticence.  What he couldn’t tell people, what he could never quite articulate, was what it all meant to him. Saying no to Darren happened more often than saying yes, but he did it because he knew fully the consequences of trying to live a normal life.  He couldn’t put name to the feeling in his stomach every time Darren closed in on himself a little more, but it reminded him of guilt.  Too often he’d lain awake at night thinking about the life Darren could have with someone else.

 

“What do we need two bedrooms for?”  Chris finally asked.

 

Darren’s smile spread with caution.  “Yeah?”

 

“I still think you’re crazy,” warned Chris.  Keeping Darren from getting his hopes too high was a constant battle.  Part of being a wet blanket, he supposed.

 

“Probably,” Darren agreed. Careful delight bloomed in his gut.  It wasn’t the thrill of risk that bubbled, but the joy of getting Chris to say yes to something.  There was so much in the world he wanted to see, so much he wanted to share with Chris, and so little space to do so.  So little time. “So can I buy the tickets?”

 

“How long is this thing?  You know I’ve got shit coming up.”

 

Darren tried to keep any smugness off his face.  “I know.  But it’s perfect timing.  It’s early March.  You’re going to be in New York already so it lines up.  And the carnival is three days.  So if you can’t take anymore time than that it’s fine. We can do three days.  It’s enough.”

 

Chris flicked over to a browser tab he’d had open for two weeks, ever since Darren first mentioned this trip to him and he’d starting reading up on Darren’s grand plan.  Switzerland.  A massive carnival.  15,000 people or more in the streets, but masked.  Guaranteed anonymity in a veritable sea of revellers. Beating drums through the night.  Despite himself, despite the ever present caution under which they lived, the idea was intriguing, exciting.  Almost thrilling.  But three days was never enough.

 

“It’s a bad idea,” Chris said again, just to make sure the universe knew he wasn’t looking at this blindly, the way Darren sometimes did.

 

“That didn’t sound like an all caps ‘no’ this time,” Darren pointed out.

 

“I’m just saying.”

 

“I know what you’re just saying.  We’ll do what we always do.”

 

Chris knew what that meant.  Timed photos and posts book-ended by radio silence.  It didn’t mean anything and it didn’t fool anyone.  Half the time he didn’t care one way or the other.  The other half of the time he lived in fear of being caught in a situation he wasn’t ready to expose.  Chris knew the scales of their lives tilted between what they wanted and what they were willing to give up, separately and together.  It was never easy and he was not a fool.

 

“You know I don’t speak German,” Chris said, an acceptance as much as saying _yes_.

 

Darren cocked his thumb towards himself.  “Good thing you’ve got me.”

 

“You don’t really speak German either.”

 

“I speak enough,” Darren protested. “I can order us beers.  Sauerkraut.  Bratwurst.  Really what else are we going to need.”

 

“Okay.”  Chris felt himself smile despite himself.  He still didn’t think this was a particularly good idea, but it was what it was.

 

“Are you really saying yes?” Darren asked. “Because I’m about to buy these tickets and there’s no one else I want to go with if you bail on me.  And you know how I feel when people bail.”

 

Their lives were much smaller, more contained, than Chris ever imagined they would be.  He used to think about dinner parties and group vacations, a network of people to rely on, to share their lives with.  Now he tried to be content with what space they’ve carved out for themselves, chiseled carefully out of bedrock.  Instead of dinner parties and nights out on the town he had three stolen days in Switzerland with a man he could never completely extricate himself from if he wanted to.

 

“I’m saying,” Chris put his laptop on the coffee table.  “That I guess you should tell me what I need to pack.”

 

His anticipatory move proved helpful when Darren shoved his own computer aside and launched himself across the couch.  Chris let himself get wrapped up in Darren’s arms, not wholly unlike the way he let himself get caught up in Darren altogether.

 

Darren smacked a kiss against Chris’ cheek, the easiest part of him to reach.  He was not blind to Chris’ reticence to come with him to Switzerland.  Just as he was not blind to the risks they took every time they went somewhere, few as those times were.  The result being they mostly stayed locked away inside wherever they are: a hotel room, his parents’ house, Chris’.  It was never so much a vacation as a retreat from the world; phone off, new books opened, as much sleep as possible.  But this time there would be masks, real masks, and costumes to fully conceal who they were to everyone but each other.  Darren didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

“Thank you,” he breathed against Chris’ skin.

 

*******

Chris hated flying alone, but he couldn’t even remember the last time he traveled anywhere with Darren.  It had to have been during Glee.  There were times when they were all given a private jet, but it had been a while since then.  He didn’t fear flying, but the loneliness ate at him.  Every airport felt empty, every plane pulled into sharp focus the isolation he felt daily.

 

It used to be, in the beginning, that he would sit with Darren whenever he could.  Between takes on set.  On the tour bus barrelling down the highway.  Taking the aisle seat on a plane because Darren always took the window.  Chris would claim he needed the leg room, even though he hated how people would brush against him whenever they moved up and down the aisle.  It didn’t matter.  Darren was calming and exhilarating at the same time.  The evenness of his breath as he slept anywhere and the rush of his bare skin when their arms brushed.  Each moment was enough to get Chris to the next one.  But it had been years since they’d traveled anywhere together.

 

Stowed away somewhere in the belly of the plane was Chris’ suitcase, and inside the suitcase were masks and costumes he’d put together over the last few weeks.  He knew very little about this thing they were going to: The Carnival of Basel ( _Basler Fasnacht_ , Darren would proclaim with a purposefully overdrawn accent).  He’d done some research on it, of course, but he got the feeling that reading up on some poorly translated websites was not going to give him the full picture.  He’d figured out enough to know that they would be there as _Fasnächtler_ , full participants in the carnival and not just gawking from the side lines, and that meant costumes.

 

He had one for Darren too, who couldn’t be trusted to remember his own. Chris didn't think he was being presumptuous.

 

His layover in Paris was just long enough for him to get bored and Snapchat a few things, but not long enough to actually leave the airport. It was all for the best anyway.  At first the idea of setting a narrative of where he was - true or not - had made him feel sort of like a spy. A hint here.  A bit of trail there.  A casual intrigue. Carefully timed posts to tell people where he was long enough after he's already left that location that no one actually saw him. The first few times it had almost been fun, something to laugh about with Darren.  Now it just felt like one more thing he had to do to live his life, one more lie stacked high upon a table.

 

His second flight was shorter. A spare hour in the air to think about what he was doing and why. Why agree to this. Why let Darren pull him into another scheme - for surely it was a scheme - when they both knew how precarious the deck they were playing from was.  He couldn't turn the plane around, but he could book a new flight home and tell Darren he was sorry on the way. He'd canceled something before. And so had Darren. The fight would be short; brief and intense, but would fade away as they always did.

 

The nerves and trepidation he'd felt the whole way over briefly subsided as he made his way to the hire car waiting for him outside the airport. He pulled his hood low over his face and ducked quickly inside even though there was no one looking at him. Or for him.  Habits were hard to break and harder to avoid.

 

The driver was kind and quiet and the drive was far shorter than Chris anticipated.  He'd never been to Switzerland before. He wasn't one for skiing; he’d had no interest growing up and they couldn't afford it besides. And all of his previous travels had taken him elsewhere. He stared out of the window at the passing scenery and marveled. It was a grey late-winter day, but the greens of the countryside were vibrant and in the distance he could begin to see charming red roofs.

 

Not even twenty minutes after leaving the airport the motorway gave way to smaller roads and Chris found himself in Basel proper.  Chris stared at the flashes of dusty medieval architecture pressed up against modern glass building reflecting grey skies.

 

“ _Grossbasel_ ,” the driver said suddenly, gesturing towards a corner of the windshield. “Great Basel.  The old town.”

 

Chris could just make out the rising red sandstone spires of a great cathedral. “It's beautiful,” he said, and meant it, even as loneliness twinged in his stomach.  Darren would meet him soon enough.

 

The rented flat was just as lovely as Darren had promised. Also as promised the keys were in a lock box that opened with the passcode he'd written down in two different places.

 

Chris had stayed in opulent places before, but this suited him far better. Darren had called it an artist’s escape and he wasn't wrong.  The flat took up the top floor of a low building. When Chris opened the door the lingering scent of some sort of incense or candle greeted him, cinnamon and something darker, but not unpleasant. The living room looked like office of an eccentric old history professor; tall shelves overflowed with books, two arm chairs sat angled near a bay window, a long couch held more pillows than anyone rightly needed. The wooden floors were covered with faded rugs and Chris wouldn't have been surprised if they were as old as the building. There was even an ancient piano shoved in the far corner; Chris assumed that was the real reason Darren had chosen this place.  He loved it.

 

The two bedrooms were equal in size, but the one looked out over the old town center towards the river. Chris set his suitcase down in a corner and sat on the bed. His phone was in his hand before he'd gotten comfortable.

 

He had a stream of texts from Darren, checking to see if he'd made it to the flat okay, asking how his flight was, telling him he missed him. Chris stroke his thumb across the screen.

 

Darren answered on the first ring.  “You haven't already forgotten me have you? Moved on? Cast me aside for some charming Swiss boy with a sweet accent?  Or is it a wily Frenchman?”

 

“Both, actually. Keeps things exciting and I need pampering after such a long flight.  You understand.”

 

“You wound me, good sir.  I take it you made it okay?  No crying children on the planes?  No handsy TSA agents.  Just because I’m not there to see how they look at you doesn’t mean I don’t know.  I know they do.  Because I would.”

 

“Flights were fine, airports were airports.  It’s just…” Chris trailed off, not wanting to admit his loneliness already even as it welled up.

 

“What?”

 

“It's just quiet. Lonely.”  He didn’t even have his pets to perk him up, just an empty apartment that didn’t belong to him.

 

Darren groaned. “You're breaking my heart here.  You can’t just say shit like that.”

 

“You asked.”

 

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” Darren assured him.  “I'm already on my way.  As we speak.  Right this very moment.  I’m coming for you.”

 

“These have gotten so complicated,” Chris voiced, stretching out across the bed.  His back cracked in three places.  He needed to get into yoga or something.

 

“What? These trips?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Tell me about it. I feel like I should be earning merit badges for Spy Scouts.”

 

Chris spread his hand across his chest, felt his own heart beating. “That's not a thing.”

 

“Well, it should be.  I want my Secret Rendezvous Scout Badge post haste. Going to pin it to my Timely and Misleading Social Media Post Sash.”

 

Chris smiled at the ceiling. “You'd look good in a sash.”

 

“Yes, I think so.  Especially if I’m not--”

 

“Don’t--”

 

“--wearing anything else.”

 

“You had to.”  Chris pictured Darren in the back of a car, a quiet corner of an airport lounge, wherever he was, grinning to himself. He could hear the smile in his voice.

 

“Of course I did.  Guess what my next Halloween costume is going to be?”

 

“You're getting in in the afternoon?”  Chris didn’t even know what time it was and didn’t particularly care.

 

“That's the plan.”

 

“Okay, well.”  Chris had never been very good at hanging up, finding the end of a conversation. Texting had taken over so much of their conversation - for convenience, for privacy - but sometimes he needed the sound of Darren’s voice, the strange cadence of his speech, the soft inhalations mid-sentence.  He could never tell Darren, but sometimes he just wanted to stay on the phone with him long past the last word, letting his breath lull Chris to sleep.

 

“See you soon,” Darren said for him.

 

“This really is crazy.”

 

“I know.  But what fun would it be otherwise?”

 

Chris plugged his phone in after Darren hung up, ever wary about ending up somewhere with a dead battery.  He had a night alone in the apartment, but no real desire to do anything at all.  There was a grocery on the corner and staples in the fridge, but he was more tired than hungry.  He hadn’t slept much on the flight from New York, and for as little as he knew about what they were going to get up to the next couple of days, he knew enough that getting extra sleep now wouldn’t be the worst idea he’d ever had.

 

*******

**Sunday, March 5th - morning**

 

Chris woke up well past ten in the morning with warm sunlight flooding the bedroom; he’d neglected to close the curtains before crashing.  He stretched, more rested than he’d been in months, and groped for his phone on the night stand.  He had a few messages from friends, his sister, and just the one from Darren: _closer_.

 

He sent back an intentionally ambiguous emoji in response before he dragged himself from the bed and shuffled towards the bathroom.

 

The shower took him several minutes to figure out and several minutes more to realize that the water pressure would not be improving.  The flat’s owner had stocked the shower with bars of rich almond soap Chris was absolutely going to steal.  He lingered under water that was just hot enough, leaning against the old tiles.  He hated waiting, but it’s all he ever did anymore.  He’d waited for Glee to end, for Darren to make a decision, and now he was waiting for Darren to show up so they could spend a few days in a dusty Swiss city hiding from tourists’ cameras.

 

“This is going to be fun,” he said aloud. “It’s a beautiful city in a beautiful country and we’re going to have fun.”  He would decide later if it had been worthwhile, after all.

 

His expectations were all over the place. He trusted Darren to know enough about this festival they were walking into, and he trusted Darren to pick something they'd be able to participate in unnoticed. They had placed this particular game long enough, well enough, to play it by heart.

 

Now he just had to wait a little longer.

 

***

**Sunday, March 5th - afternoon**

 

Landing in Switzerland, Darren would have paid more attention to the vista if he hadn’t been so focused on getting to where he truly wanted to be.  It wasn’t that he’d already seen bits and pieces of Switzerland before and was no longer impressed, he was, he just had something else he was looking forward to more.  Once he got to Chris he’d be able to take in his surroundings with the proper level of appreciation.  Once he got there.

 

And in the morning the real fun would begin.

 

Darren recognized the building the rented flat was in from the website, but the driver had already seen it.  He pulled up next to the charming building and was halfway out of the car to help with Darren’s bag before Darren could tell him he didn’t need to.

 

“All good, sir?” The driver asked.  He was older than Darren thought he would be, grown used to 20-something Uber drivers.

 

“About to be,” Darren responded, glancing up at the row of windows on the top floor, reflecting the shifting skies.

 

“Do you need help with your bags?”

 

“Oh, no, thanks, I got it. Just the one, anyway.” Darren swung his suitcase out of the trunk and over to the sidewalk. He hadn't brought much, not for just a few days, and many of those hours would be spent in costume besides.

 

“Short visit then?”  The driver hadn’t spoken much during the drive, empathetic to the way Darren had been staring wistfully out of the window.

 

Darren shrugged.  “Too short, but we’ll make the most of it.”

 

“Here for the festival?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

 _“_ _Basler Fasnacht_ ,” he said, a new note of interest in his voice. “ _Die drey scheenschte Dääg._ First time?”

 

Darren nodded. “Yeah. We’re excited about it.  I mean, I had to do some convincing to get my - my partner to come, but they came around.” The vague pronouns slipped bitter off his tongue before he could stop himself.  He had trained himself well.

 

The driver tipped his head with a small smile. “Welcome.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

There was a second set of keys for the apartment, but Darren preferred the dramatics of knocking on the door.  Chris must have seen him pull up in the car and been waiting because the door swung open too quickly for anything else to be true. It made happiness bubble up inside him.

 

“Hi,” Darren said, letting his eyes rove across Chris’ achingly familiar face. He hadn't seen him in person since they'd decided to come on this trip.  Almost a month.  Not that long in the complicated scheme of their lives, but the weeks still stretched.

 

Chris stared openly, taking in Darren's beard, his worn jacket, the backpack that made him look like a college student on spring break.  In these long years Chris had never grown tired of the lines of Darren’s face, disparate shapes fitting together.  He wanted drag Darren close, kiss him hello.  But he froze halfway through the doorway; the hesitation in him borne of years of subtlety, of secrecy, of caution.  He’d so well trained himself out of immediacy, out of spontaneity.  Even in a place such as this.

 

Darren let go of his suitcase handle, spread his hands out in invitation, supplication. “There is _literally_ no one else around,” he said, prompting.  He had a rule he’d never voiced: he tried to make Chris make the first move, the first contact, at least half the time.

 

On a breath Chris reached out, grabbed Darren by the strap of his backpack, and pulled him close. The kiss was easy; unhurried and confident.  The thrill of doing this outside of their homes, out in the relative open of a hallway that did not belong to them, made Chris shiver.

 

“Oh, you smell good,” Darren muttered into the curve of Chris’ neck.  He’d gotten his arms around Chris, hindered by his backpack through he was, and held on tight.

 

“Almond,” responded Chris, settling into Darren’s arms with an ease he rarely felt on the open side of a door.

 

“What?”

 

“The soap, it’s almond.”

 

“Okay.” Darren wanted to laugh.

 

“Never mind.”

 

“Can we go inside now?”

 

“God yes.”

 

The door shut quietly behind them; Darren rolled his suitcase out of the way.

 

Chris watched him take in the apartment with softness in his eyes, watched him notice the piano in the corner and the big windows looking out over the city. The tension of the last days, weeks, began to ease from his blood.  Being alone with Darren somewhere truly private with the promise of more than a few hours always broke something open inside Chris. He could feel his bones making space, his limbs finding looser shapes. His breath came a little deeper, a little easier.

 

“There you are,” Darren said, softly.  Chris blinked; Darren was staring at him with the kind of wild fondness he'd spent years trying to tame.

 

“What?”

 

Darren tossed his backpack to the floor, his jacket to a chair. “I can always tell when you become you.”

 

“As opposed to…?”

 

“That other guy.  The one with that pinched little mouth.”

 

“I’m the Hulk now?”

 

Darren looked him up and down.  “Not this skinny you aren’t.”

 

Chris folded his arms across his chest.  “I eat.”

 

“I didn’t say you didn’t.”  Darren didn’t want this to weave into an unnecessary argument, didn’t want to color these few days with fragments of their real lives.

 

“Okay.”

 

Darren let out a frustrated breath and quickly crossed the room, feet silent on the old rugs.  He knew, now, the times when it made sense to reach for Chris first, and so he did.  Put hands across Chris’ biceps and gently unfolded his arms, angled them around his own shoulders.  Darren tucked his face into the bend Chris’ neck and waited.

 

Chris took a slow breath, let his chest rise against Darren, let Darren’s warmth creep under his clothes.  He waited for that looseness to come back to him, that ease.  It didn’t take long.

 

“Okay,” Chris insisted. “Okay.”

 

Darren kissed the side of his neck, dry-lipped and light, and then the edge of his jaw, and finally his mouth.  “Can we start our vacation now?  Instead of this.”

 

Chris rolled his eyes, smiled.  “Yes.”

 

*******

**Monday, March 6th, pre-dawn**

 

Chris blinked and blinked again, brought to wakefulness by Darren’s gentle rousing.  “No,” he protested.  They’d gone to bed purposefully early in anticipation of this very thing, but in that moment it didn’t matter.  All he wanted was to go back to sleep.

 

“Come on,” Darren bent over him and kissed his bare shoulder. “We gotta get moving if we’re going to be there at the start.”

 

Chris grumbled, but allowed Darren to pull the covers from him and coax him out bed. This was why they were here, after all.  He splashed warm water on his face, brushed his teeth with rote movements, and listened as Darren shuffled around the bedroom.  It was these quiet, intimate moments Chris thought he yearned for the most.  The things they couldn’t have, lost in private conversation at a small table in the back of a crowded restaurant; walking through a sun-dappled park with their fingers linked casually between them.   He missed the things they’d never had, the things so many other took for granted.

 

Darren was sitting on the bed, mostly dressed, and staring at his phone when Chris came out of the bathroom. “Posting something random to Twitter,” Darren explained. “Since it’s like, six hours earlier in New York. So hypothetically I could be out having a grand old time with unnamed best buds.”

 

“It’s nine hours earlier in LA,” Chris pointed out.

 

“What?”

 

“It’s nine hours earlier in LA.  Not six.  Weren’t you supposed to be leaving from LA?”

 

Darren frowned, an exaggerated pull of his mouth. “Don’t come at me with your logic and your knowledge of time zones and shit.  It’s too early.”

 

Chris just smiled.

 

He had carefully stashed their costumes in the closet when he’d arrived, and now he pulled everything out and set them on the bed.

 

“I’ve been waiting for this forever,” Darren said, hopping up and stepping up close to his shoulder.

 

“I did some research,” Chris explained. “About what people dressed up as.  Since we’re not part of an official group I thought, you know, we could have a little extra fun.  So I called a guy.”

 

Darren stared down at the masks Chris had brought.  They were oversized, expensively made with exaggerated features, and very obvious. “You costume choice is...a fox.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“A fox.”

 

“Yes.”  There was laughter in his voice.

 

Darren pressed his lips together. “A fox.”

 

“If you say it one more time a real fox appears out of the mist.  Do you like them?”  It had seemed funny at the time he placed the order.  He’d had no real desire to dress up as a politician or other historical figure and so many others would, but this he could get behind.  This was a particular brand of humor.

 

“You’re crazy.  They’re perfect.”  Darren leaned over Chris’ shoulder to kiss his cheek. His beard was a familiar scratch against his skin.  “Let’s get dressed.  We’ve got a carnival to get to.”

 

*******

**Monday, March 6th - Basel, Old Town - 4:00am**

 

Chris stood shivering in the middle of an immense crowd.  Thousands of people and no faces, for everyone within sight was cloaked by masks and costumes, made anonymous and singular at once.  At his side was Darren, similarly concealed beneath a mask that matched Chris’ own.

 

They held hands, waiting, fingers twined and Chris felt exposed.  He could not recall another time he had done this, stood with Darren in public and declared him more than a coworker, a friend.  Even if only to strangers he’d never see again.  He had to remind himself, over and over, that no one could identify him, no one could name him.  No photo would emerge of him and Darren in close contact.  All anyone would see were two masked figures in an ocean of wild characters.

 

“Here, put this on,” Darren said and handed him a small, rectangular badge. It was gold plated, heavier than it looked, and depicted a few revelers in a parade.

 

“How much did you pay for this?” Chris asked, carefully pinning it to his chest.  Around him he could see everyone else wearing a version of the same badge.

 

“More than it’s worth,” Darren answered. “It’s all part of the experience.”

 

It was strange to hear his voice, muffled a bit, and not see his face even though they were standing right next to each other.  When Chris looked at him there was no hint at all of him; no bit of hair sticking out, no glimpse of his eyes, nothing identifying at all.  Even the familiar breadth of his shoulders, the slimness of his waist were altered by the baggy fox costume he wore.

 

The crowd around them shifted and a murmur seemed to spread, a hum of anticipation that was impossible not to feel in return.

 

“I think it’s almost time,” Darren said. He stepped a little closer and took Chris’ hand again.  He was going to take advantage of this time, this place.  These hours that were unique to them, a chance to pretend things were not as they really were.

 

Suddenly every light in old town went dark all at once and Chris squeezed Darren’s hand as he jerked in surprise.

 

“Here we go,” Darren said, squeezing back.

 

The only remaining light was that of lanterns, both massive and small, pulsing above the crowds.  The fiery illumination was astounding, magical in a way Chris didn’t really think existed.  Dark morning became bright, awash in the warm glow of community.  Chris felt something heavy well up in his chest and he leaned into Darren a little more.

 

Through the crowd, somewhere Chris couldn’t quite see, a voice rang out, a call, and suddenly the city filled with sound.  A thousand drums rising up and up in a joyous, pulling rhythm.  Joining the drums came the high song of piccolos and fifes, bright and cheerful against the lower thumping of the drums.  It was overwhelming, all encompassing. Beautiful.

 

“Jesus,” Chris whispered, transfixed.

 

“Yeah,” Darren agreed, quite unable to say much more.  He’d read up quite a bit about the carnival, looked at photos, but no words had done the moment justice.

 

The march began, thousands of participants marching through the old town of Basel.  Chris marveled at the largest of the elaborate lanterns, some carried aloft by members of the _cliques_ , other affixed to slow moving cars.  Some of them were even a bit risque, depicting images Chris would have expected during Mardis Gras.   Among the revelers Chris could see wild and fantastic costumes; Napoleonic soldiers, caricatures of politicians even he recognized, outlandish harlequin figures, and so much more.

 

“This is…” Chris began, but could not find the end of the sentence.

 

“Yeah,” Darren said again, a slow exhalation. Happiness filled his heart, suffusing him in a way he hadn’t felt in too long.  There was so much he hadn’t been able to share with Chris over the years, so many astounding places visited he’d only been able to offer photos of and recount stories about later.  Historical sites Chris would have loved that he saw alone, unearthly vistas he rambled through, wild storms he watched through windows while Chris’ absence ate at the very heart him.

 

But here, finally, was something experienced together.  Something just for them, no work obligations, no outside influence.  Just them.  Something precious they could take with them forever.

 

Darren leaned into Chris; their masks were well in the way but he still tipped his head against Chris’ shoulder.  “I’m glad you said yes.”

 

Chris breathed into Darren’s weight, let the warmth of him seep into his skin. “I’m glad I did too.  Even if it still is crazy.”

 

The cafes, pubs, and restaurants were all open, and would be until the end of the carnival.  Long tables were set out under tents to try and give seats to as many people as possible.  As the sun finally began to rise, Chris and Darren wandered through the narrow, cobbled streets, eating their way from shop to shop.  Chris let Darren slather creamy butter on a slice of thick bread and feed it to him while he held the mask out of the way.  The bread was dark and soft and still warm from the ovens that morning, and the grey-haired woman who’d sold it to them smiled on approvingly when Chris asked for another slice.  He bought a whole loaf and some of the butter too, even though he’d have to carry it with him the rest of the day.

 

A few doors down under a red awning Darren gorged a bit on _Zwiebelkuchen_ , which even he had trouble pronouncing.  A short, round man with a kind, open faced laughed at his first attempts to get his mouth around the word and served him a huge slice nevertheless.

 

“Oh god, Chris,” Darren moaned, loud enough to turn a few heads.  “You have to try this. Put this in your mouth.”

 

Chris wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but it smelled heavenly. A golden crusted dough with onions, bacon, and cream baked right in.  The first bite crunched beneath his teeth and the sharp tang of onions with the salty pleasure of the caramelized bacon made him smile even as he chewed.  He wished they didn’t need the masks, but he wasn’t yet ready to be careless.

 

“Jesus,” he mumbled around his mouthful, delighting in every flavor, every taste.

 

Darren laughed.  “Right? Why would anyone eat a burger when you could eat this?”

 

“Surely someone in LA would put this on a burger and call it good.”

 

“I’d eat it.  Let’s quit Hollywood and open up a restaurant,” Darren proclaimed and Chris just nodded.  It wasn’t the worst idea, really.

 

He made Darren walk a few blocks before stopping again, made him pay more attention to the stores selling trinkets and wares than food. There wasn’t much he wanted to buy - his memories would be souveniers enough - but he could only eat so much at once.  He’d managed so far to keep them both away from the sweets, hoping to save something for the next two days, but he couldn’t keep Darren from angling towards a little stand that looked to be selling pies.

 

When they crossed the street Chris could see they weren’t pies exactly, but something that looked more like a flatter quiche.

 

“I think it’s a sort of cheese tart,” Darren said, nearly salivating over the display despite having already eaten what likely amounted to a full meal.  A middle-aged woman in a colored apron showed them a few different flavors, beaming happily when Darren couldn’t decide what he wanted more.

 

“Well that one definitely has bacon,” Chris offered.

 

Next to them appeared a small group, in their 20s and tourists also by the look of them.  They weren’t in costume at all, and chattered excitedly in what Chris realized was French.  Darren turned his head towards Chris, and even though Chris couldn’t see his smile, he felt it.  Chris reached out and tapped the elongated fox snout of his mask with one finger.

 

Before the group of French tourists left with their purchases, they shyly asked Chris and Darren for a photo, blushing while they gestured with their phones.  Panic snapped up Chris’ spine until he remembered there was nothing recognizable about either of them.  They were just two shapeless figures amongst thousands, hidden under the guise of foxes.  They could pose for photos and no one would ever know.

 

Chris let Darren respond to the tourists; in part because he knew how Darren liked to show off his language skills, but mostly because Chris’ own French was terrible.  He stepped up close to Darren, pressing their hips together, and at the urging of the tourist held his hands up like claws.  

 

The group laughed, thanked them, and skittered away with their boxes of delicacies, moving on to the next delight.

 

Darren turned to Chris, hands still curved into claws. “Grrrrrr.”

 

“I don’t think that’s what foxes sound like,” Chris noted.

 

“So...what does the fox say?”

 

Chris punched Darren in the shoulder while baker laughed at them both.

 

“I’ve been waiting fucking hours for the right moment,” Darren admitted.

 

When the afternoon came, they found a spot along the inner ring of the route to watch the official parade go by.  Chris was tired; from the early morning wake up and the excitement from the day.  And probably a fair helping of jet lag.  He leaned into Darren, let him bear some of his weight.  His breath caught when he felt Darren slide an arm around his waist, holding him close in the midst of the gathering crowd.

 

“We never get to do this,” Darren said right next to his ear.

 

“No,” Chris agreed.  Darren’s hard was secure around him, strong, unyielding.

 

“It’s nice.” Darren wanted to bury his face in Chris’ neck, but couldn’t with the mask.  “Acting like real people.  A real, dare I say it, couple.”

 

“Yeah.” Happiness bubbled up inside of Chris, sweeter and lighter than he’d felt in a long time.  

 

Chris did not consider himself a romantic, he did not think himself a man who fell to the whimsy of idealized, mawkish love.  He often sneered privately at couples caught up in each other on street corners; he rolled his eyes at soppy declarations plastered across social media, even as he liked the posts out of a sense of duty.  He did not buy flowers and he did not often plan surprises.  What he felt for Darren he kept between them.  His need for Darren, his desires he kept private and contained. He expressed what he felt safe enough to say tucked between pages, hidden between words that were there and others that were not.  Or muttered quietly in the darkness of a closed bedroom.

 

But standing amongst thousands of jubilant revelers in the midst of a medieval city in Switzerland, breathing in clean air with slick cobblestones under his feet, with Darren unashamed at his side, Chris felt love in every bone.

 

The music of the drums and the piccolos, which had never quite completely disappeared, rose up again, swelling over the murmuring and laughter of the crowd.  It was joined now by the brighter call of a brass band, a dozen brass bands marching down the lane.

 

“This is the _Cortège_ ,” Darren said, accented in a way that told Chris he’d been practicing.

 

“What’s that mean?”

 

“I have no idea.”

 

Chris marveled once more at the wild and fanciful costumes adoring the thousands - tens of thousands - of parade-goers passing them by.  Interspersed among the brass bands and drummers were trucks and tractors pulling garish and outrageous floats.   _Waggis_ rode on the floats; men and women dressed up as exaggerated clown figures, huge wigs and distorted figures, and they were hurling mounds and mounds of confetti into the crowds.

 

“This is insane,” Chris shouted over the cacophony as a group of tourists near them who were not in costume got a faceful of confetti as their prize.

 

“It’s fucking awesome!” Darren shouted back and Chris couldn’t disagree.

 

 _Waggis_ also marched down the streets alongside the floats, hanging out - and throwing - what looked like oranges and flowers to the bystanders.  The cobblestones soon became awash in pulp and paper.  One such figure approached, and Chris held his breath waiting to receive an explosion of confetti all over him, but the person merely sketched a mocking bow and handed Chris a small bouquet of warm yellow flowers.

 

“Thank you,” Chris responded, holding the flowers to his chest.  The _Waggi_ tipped their head, the gesture made comical by the huge, cumbersome mask, and then handed to Darren an assortments of sweets before rejoining the parade.

 

“I was about to be super jealous,” Darren sniffed towards the flowers. “But I got chocolate from someone who I think was dressed as Tony Blair so we’re cool!”

 

Some hours later, and at Chris’ urging, they found a small cafe a bit away from the bustling town center.  There were tables set up outside and in the back, and Chris and Darren collapsed at one of them.

 

“Fuck me I’m tired,” Darren moaned, stretching his legs out.

 

“Don’t think I could,” Chris quipped.  His feet ached and so did his back; he knew he’d sleep well despite the ceaseless drumming.  He set the little bouquet of mostly intact flowers on the table.  They were pretty and he hoped there was a vase back at the flat.

 

“Funny man.  Restaurant owner. Professional comedian.  You’ve got a whole world of possibilities ahead of you if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out.”

 

“I’ll remember that.”

 

The owner of the cafe approached and Darren ordered a couple of espressos and a plate of bread and cheese. The tiny cups of rich coffee came with small squares of fine, dark chocolate that Darren was absolutely going to save for later.  Probably.

 

Tucked back around the side of the cafe a sort of calm settled around them.  The revelry carried on in the surrounding streets, but here it seemed like they could catch their breath.  Take a moment.

 

Darren looked around them.  Spectators and participants rambled along, heading from one thing to another.  Thousands upon thousands dressed in fanciful costumes, children darting about the cobblestone, laughing and throwing the remains of oranges and confetti at each other.  At the cafe, another couple sat a few tables away, completely engrossed in each other and a map spread out between them.  They seemed middle-aged and oblivious to anything else.  Inside the other patrons chatted away happily.

 

“Do you think it’s safe?” Darren asked suddenly, contemplatively.

 

“To do what?”

 

“Take off the masks.”

 

Chris looked up sharply.  It was still odd to see nothing but the smirking face of a fox looking back at him, even though he knew who was underneath.  He missed different colors in Darren’s eyes, the shadow of his beard. “Isn’t the whole point...not doing that?”

 

Darren shrugged.  “Yeah, but like, look around.  No one is going to notice us.  Just for a minute.  Just for this sweet fucking espresso and cheese and chocolate.  And besides, I haven’t seen your face all day.”  He reached up pushed the mask up until it balanced precariously on his head, exposing most of his face.  He was flushed beneath his beard and sweaty, despite the chill in the air.  The mask has left funny little mark and indents on his forehead and the bridge of his nose.  Darren rubbed his face and grinned roguishly.

 

Chris sighed.  He’d known, of course he’d known, that Darren would do something like this.  That he’d never be able to stick to the script.  But Darren wasn’t wrong.  There really was not much happening around them in that moment; most of the people were still along the parade routes or roaming the markets.  They felt a little secluded, protected from the hustle of the festival.

 

“Okay, but if this ends in TMZ…”

 

“I’ll pay the lawyers.  Done it before.”

 

Chris acquiesced, lifting his own mask up as Darren had done.  The world shifted, his field of vision opening.  The air was suddenly cool on his flushed cheeks.  Across the small table Darren grinned brightly at him, eyes squinting and teeth white in the sun.  His hair was a mess, flattened in places, sweaty in other, and he was distinctly handsome.

 

“There you are,” Darren spoke softly, intimately.

 

“You’re crazy.”

 

Darren bumped Chris’ foot under the table.  “Perhaps.  But here we are.”

 

Chris nodded and popped the square of chocolate in his mouth to let it melt slowly across his tongue.  “Yes, here we are.”

 

*******

**Tuesday, March 7th - morning**

 

Chris rolled over, half-tangled in the sheets, and blinked blearily towards the window.  They’d remembered to close the curtains that night and the drowsy room was still dim in the morning. In the distance drums were beating, fainter than before, but still there.  Chris stretched; his back twinged a little and his feet were tired, but he felt rested.  There was no immediate flutter in his stomach reminding him of all the things he needed to do that day.  No moment of regret for the things he did not do yesterday.  He felt calm.

 

Next to him, awkwardly splayed out and mostly buried under the covers, Darren slept, breathing slowly.  Happiness coiled in Chris’ stomach, warmth suffusing along his skin.  A rarer thing these days, he thought, than the sharper scrape of reality.  Those mornings, more often than not, when he woke alone in a bed built for two, when breakfast was a solemn affair he rushed through instead of enjoying.  But this day, these few days, he could have something different.

 

Chris shoved Darren's shoulder. “Hey.”

 

Darren rolled with it, body lax and languid. “Wassit?” He snuffled, face still smooshed into the pillow.

 

“I’m hungry.”

 

One eye slowly open, regarding him.  “How’re you hungry after yesterday?”

 

He wasn’t, really.  “Aren’t you?”

 

Darren rolled all the way over.  “Yes.”

 

“Okay then.”  Chris moved to get up, but fingers closed around his wrist and drew him back down to the bed.

 

The sheets were warm, rumpled. Smelled like Darren, and himself, probably, but he never really noticed that part. Darren’s lips were dry when he kissed him, slow moving and sweet.  Chris let himself rest against Darren’s chest, palm digging into the mattress to hold himself up.  He felt it when Darren’s legs spread, making room between his thighs for Chris.

 

They never had the time for this is, it felt like, time for lazy and languid.  Deepening kisses and slow hands roving, finding skin, slipping away.  When Darren was over it felt sometimes like they had to cram as much into the hours as possible. Darren would read the pages Chris was willing to show him while Chris listened to half-finished songs recorded on Darren’s phone.  Sorting bills and throwing away junk mail Chris had a tendency to hoard.  Ordering groceries to avoid the store and watching while Darren cooked in ugly basketball shorts and a tanktop because he got too hot standing over the stove.  There was always so much to do. But Chris ached for it all the same.

 

Chris slid a hand up Darren’s naked waist, fingers ghosting along the ridges of his ribs.  His mouth felt swollen already, tender as the room grew warm. He was only wearing underwear and Darren was too. Chris kissed him deeper, pushed closer to him. The skin of his inner thighs was warm, the hair scratchy where it was finally growing back in. Chris moved his palm over the raise of Darren's hipbone and down, squeezing the juncture of his thigh.

 

“Can we fuck?” Darren asked, mouth open and grown wet.

 

Chris blinked.  “This wonderful romantic getaway and that’s how you talk?”

 

“Can we fuck, please?”

 

Chris kissed his smirk away.

 

The shower was not big enough for the both of them, and didn’t have enough water pressure besides.  Chris banished Darren to the sink to brush his teeth while he rinsed off; they’d never make it out of the apartment otherwise.

 

“Start the kettle,” Darren ordered as he shimmied past Chris to hop into the shower after he was done.  There was a single red mark on his throat and sweat still glistening across his shoulders.

 

The kitchen was small, but charming.  A cabinet full of mismatched mugs and an old fashioned tea kettle. Potted succulents on the windowsill growing towards the light.  Chris got water heating and found tins of loose leaf tea on the counter.  There was coffee too, and an expensive looking french press he didn’t want to deal with.  Or break.

 

He sliced up the thick bread he’d bought the day before and set out jam and creamy butter on the small table next to the bay window.  Sunlight slanted into the kitchen, lighting up dust motes and illuminating the fine grain in the old wooden table, the faded patterns in the floor tiles. There were eggs on the counter, and cereal in the cabinet, but Chris thought the bread would be fine. They’d likely eat more than they should throughout the day anyway. He did put out some fruit though, mostly because it was already cut up and easy to serve.

 

The kettle whistled while Chris was staring out the window, looking towards the tall spires of the cathedral in the distance. He wanted to be a bit of tourist today, see more of the city than they had.  It wasn’t likely he’d be able to return anytime soon.

 

There was black tea in one jar and green in another. Chris made two cups of black and found sugar and cream to set on the table. He stepped back, laughed. It was quite the domestic little picture he'd made for them. A table set for two, filtering sunlight, a gorgeous background through an old window. He took a photo of it, as though he could post it to Instagram with a cheesy caption and a few emojis. He couldn't. But he wanted the photo all the same.  As he wanted so many others.

 

From the living room Chris heard a few sweet notes ring out from the piano, the beginning of a song Chris could almost name.  The gentle chords were still lingering  when the floorboards squeaked as Darren shuffled into the kitchen on bare feet. He was wearing jeans but no shirt and his hair was still wet. He put a hand low on Chris’ waist and kissed him slowly.  Chris still worried, occasionally, about someone seeing them through the tall windows of Chris’ house high up on the hill. But there was a gate and it was set back from the street besides. Here he didn't have that worry at all.

 

“Mmmm,” Darren smacked his lips obnoxiously. “Toothpaste.”

 

Chris rolled his eyes, pushed Darren towards one of the chairs.  They could get caught up in one another once more or they could leave the flat at a reasonable hour.

 

Darren eyed the small spread and his stomach rumbled in recognition. “You made breakfast.”

 

Chris shrugged. “I cut bread and took some stuff out of the fridge. And also boiled water.  It was very time consuming and difficult. Your gratitude is appreciated.”  Chris was sure he’d be thanked profusely later.

 

“This what you bought yesterday?” Darren asked, slathering the rich butter across the top, probably quite a bit more than he needed.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Good choice.” A few crumbs fell to the plate.  “Could still go for more of that quiche though. Or that onion pizza thing.”

 

“I don't know that they'd appreciate you calling it pizza.”

 

“It's a compliment.”

 

“Okay.”  Chris smiled.

 

Darren sipped his tea, regarded Chris across the small table.  Mornings at Chris’ house could be slow, sometimes, easy and casual.  Chris didn’t often cook, but Darren didn’t mind doing it.   His mom had taught him a few things he still remembered, even if Chris rarely had the right ingredients in his cupboards ahead of time. Somehow between them they had over a dozen cookbooks that were never used. Darren liked to flip through the glossy pages and imagine what he might make, but inevitably he fell back on what he knew.  Wasn’t that the way of so many things.

 

But sometimes mornings were Darren remembering he was supposed to be across town last minute or waiting for a car to drive down the street so he could sneak out unnoticed.  Sometimes mornings were Chris already gone and Darren standing in the middle of an empty house he didn’t completely belong in.  Those mornings left him with a metallic tang in his mouth the rest of the day.

 

“Thank you,” Darren said, savoring the heat of the teacup warming his hands.  “For breakfast.”

 

Chris nodded, smiled a little over his tea cup.

 

*******

**Tuesday, March 7th - Basel - Afternoon**

  
The town was a little quieter than it had been yesterday, though only by degrees.  The rampant revelry of the parade had subsided to a dull roar of an ongoing holiday.  The drums beat a festive rhythm carried on the gentle breeze, winding between the old stone buildings, gliding across the dew-slick cobblestones.

 

Chris had forgone his full costume, opting instead for a small mask that covered his eyes and the slope of his nose.  It was cheap, bought from a costume shop in LA, and Darren had one too.  Chris figured it would be enough.  His jacket had a deep hood he could pull up if needed, but Darren was right: no one was paying them any attention at all.

 

“ _Mittlere Brücke_ ,” Darren was saying.  He looked somewhere between ridiculous and beautiful with his dark mask hiding half of his face.

 

“What?”

 

Darren pointed at the low stone bridge they were about to cross. “Middle bridge.”

 

“Am I supposed to just trust you’re pronouncing that correctly?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Beneath their feet the Rhine was grey-green in low morning light, slipping along its ancient route.  Across the river the town looked as old as it was, inviting in its age.

 

They’d almost crossed the bridge when Darren stopped Chris with a gentle hand on his hip.  Chris turned towards him, head tilted with a question.

 

“Here,” Darren guided them to lean against the heavy stone wall of the bridge. Drums sounded in the distance, a light wind carried the old scent of the water.  “Gustav Mahler once stood here, right here.  With his wife, Alma.”

 

“Mahler.  The composer?”

 

Darren nodded.  “They’d come here, to Basel, because Mahler was conducting a performance of Symphony No. 2 at the big Cathedral.”  He pulled his phone out of his pocket.  “They’d only been married a year, and they came to this bridge, and some passerby took a couple photos of them.  They’re the first known photos of them.  No selfies, obviously.”

 

Darren angled his phone towards Chris.  On the screen was a surprisingly clear black and white photograph of Gustav and Alma standing on the self-same bridge, staring out across the river towards the old town center, just as Chris and Darren were doing then.  They seemed calm, introspective. Confident.

 

“When they first met,” Darren continued, voice low. “At a party, they _hated_ each other.”

 

Chris snorted.  “Really.”

 

“Well, it’s more like they had a bit of a disagreement about a ballet.  But somehow Alma agreed to see Gustav the next day.  Apparently he was quite the charmer.  Or persuasive.  They were married four months later.”

 

“Yes that always turns out well for people,” Chris commented.  But as he spoke he thought of the first four months of knowing Darren, those first wild and breathless weeks when he too might have done something rash just to keep Darren close.  To keep him away from anyone else.

 

“Their marriage was...fractious.  He was almost 20 years older than she was.  And she was also a composer, but Gustav felt that there was only room for one of them in their marriage, and of course that was him.  Alma resented that, resented him for taking that away from her.  It wasn’t until later that he changed his mind and began to take an interest in her work.”

 

Chris took a slow breath. Darren was warm next to him, pressed against his side.  “But it was too late?”

 

Darren shrugged.  “Mahler had a heart problem and was told not to over exert himself.  They’d already lost a daughter to illness.  And Alma had started to have an affair with an architect.  It was when Gustav found out about the affair that he realized by preventing Alma from producing her own work he’d really sort of pushed her away from him, and that’s when he started to encourage her writing.  Despite everything, he dedicated his Eighth Symphony to her.  And then he died the next year.”

 

Chris huffed, mildly surprised. “My, what a romantic story.”

 

Darren slid an arm around Chris’ waist, curled his fingers in Chris’ coat as though trying to get to his skin.  “But here, right here on this bridge, right where we are, they were happy.  I think.  Really happy.  Here in this beautiful town, celebrating his symphony, madly in love.”

 

Chris shivered. “Are you saying you’re going to supress my creativity at the expense of your own and then die on me?”

 

“Who says I’m Gustav?”  Darren rested his cheek on Chris’ shoulder.

 

“Well,” Chris reached across his own stomach to grip Darren’s hand.  “You _are_ so much older than me.”

 

Darren laughed, a soft exhale. “Ancient, really.”

 

There were fine lines in the corners of Darren’s eyes where there were none before, new scars on his body Chris has come to love.  Grey would come too, eventually; unavoidable and relentless.  Chris thought time has marked him differently that Darren; twisted his veins and left bruises that remained unseen.

 

“You haven’t dedicated a symphony to me yet,” Chris said, instead of asking Darren to never leave him.

 

“Haven’t I?”  Darren squeezed Chris tightly.  “A man has to have a few secrets.”

 

Chris hummed.  “Fine.  Come on, let’s get into town.” He didn’t need to say they didn’t have much time left and none to waste.

 

Darren stopped him short.  “Wait.”  He dug his phone back out and pulled the camera up.

 

“Darren.” The word was a warning.

 

“Please?  We never do.”  Darren was not above pouting, a ludicrous expression likely made worse by the mask he still wore.

 

Chris sighed good naturedly and allowed Darren to turn them around so that the waters of the Rhine and the old city were behind them.

 

“Smile,” Darren whispered, holding the phone out in front of them.  Chris smiled, not at the camera, but at their ridiculous faces on the screen, half-hidden by cheap masks.  Darren pressed their cheeks together and took a few photos.  At the last moment, he turned his head and placed a warm kiss to Chris’ cheek, lingering as Chris’ smile widened automatically.

 

Darren fantasized, sometimes, about uploading a photo of them to any of his social media accounts.  No announcements, no fanfare.  No explanation.  Just a casual photo like everyone else got to do.

 

“Send them to me, okay?” Chris asked as Darren shoved his phone back in his pocket.  He had a folder on his laptop of the photos he didn’t dare keep on his phone, and feared to keep in any sort of online storage in case someone ever felt the need to hack his accounts.  Photos of him and Darren throughout the years; nothing salacious, just memories he wanted kept safe. Kept somewhere he could return to when he needed.

 

“Come on,” Darren grabbed Chris’ hand. “Daylight's burning.”

 

*******

Chris sat at a table outside a vibrant little restaurant at the junction of two steep streets. Patrons from every table switched seats like a dance, mingling with old friends and new. A chessboard on one table had at least four players and a cheese and charcuterie board was shared by more.

 

A few tables away Darren perched on the edge of his chair, leaning towards an older woman with grey eyes and a wide mouth.  She was laughing at him as he struggled to pronounce a new word in a Swiss-German dialect, repeating it back to him over and over until he got it close to right. Darren exaggerated wiping sweat from his brow, feigning exhaustion. Chris’ heart cramped painfully, watching the exuberance in Darren's hands, the laughter brightening his face. He could, perhaps, watch Darren all day if he was ever allowed. If there was ever the time to stand so still.

 

A heavy hand settled on Chris’ shoulder and a gruff voice spoke lowly. “He's a good man, yours.”

 

A older gentleman stood next to his chair, smiling with a grandfatherly sort of affection at Darren.  The instinctive urge to protest, to refute, rose up harsh in Chris’ throat.  To say no, you’ve got it wrong, that is not it at all.  To make sure the man _understood_.  Chris felt sometimes like a story, an explanation, was always in the back of his mouth, waiting to be called upon. Always ready to correct the truth in order to protect it. It was easier to remember if he thought of it constantly.  To never let that piece slip and crack.

 

But Chris did not want to tar this place, these memories, with a lie. Not when it was not needed.

 

“Yes,” Chris said. “He is.” It tasted like espresso, rich and unreasonably sweet for something so simple.

 

“Life is difficult,” the gentleman added with the kind of wisdom Chris could only dream of. “Work.  Home.  Money.  Love.  And then-” The older man made a small gesture that encompassed the patrons, the grey-eyed woman, Darren, the cafe, the world.

 

 _Yes_ , Chris thought.  “And then.” He echoed.

 

Darren looked up then, soft-eyed with filtered sunlight on his beard-darkened cheeks, perhaps feeling the weight of Chris’ gaze on him. He tilted his head in a question and Chris smiled reassuringly at him.

 

They could retire here. The thought him hard.  Chris could write from a sunlit flat near the river. They could have a spare room set up as a studio for Darren with space enough for a piano, his guitars. He could travel when he needed to record in a studio, or film a small part in a movie. Whatever he needed to ease the itch of creation. Chris pulled in enough for the both them with his books; Darren could take the time he needed to figure out what he wanted. They could keep the house in LA; get a cheaper apartment in New York for when it became necessary to return to the world. Better there than impersonal hotels. But most of their time could be spent here. Right here. Quiet and unassuming. Tucked away without hiding.  Simply living.

 

Perhaps. One day.

 

Love, Chris thought, was wasteful.  Needlessly complicated.  Over-reaching in its consumption of self.  

 

Darren stood up, excusing himself from his impromptu language tutorial, and slipped between the tables towards Chris.  His gaze was heavy, a small smile in the corners of his mouth, intimate in its familiarity.  His body moved with a languid sort of grace he only carried when he was utterly relaxed.

 

Love, Chris thought, was swings and roundabouts.  What was lost one day regained the next, unfolding ever onward.

 

But then, sometimes, there was this.

 

*******

It was dark when they finally wandered back to the rented flat.  Darren fumbled with the key while Chris pressed up close behind him, buried his nose in Darren’s neck and breathed him in.  He smelled more like the city than himself: cold air, the river, smoke from the stoves.

 

“Need a hand?” Chris asked, sliding his own over Darren’s hip, under his jacket, and across his stomach.

 

Darren shivered and nearly dropped the keys. “Yes, in fact I do.”

 

Chris skimmed his fingertips along the hem of Darren’s shirt, dipped them under the waist of his jeans.

 

“Are you feeling me up in the hallway?”  Darren asked.

 

“If you don’t get the door open I will be.”

 

A renewed effort got the lock open and them inside the cool, darkened flat.  Darren turned in Chris’ arms and kissed him soundly.  He’d been aching the whole day, tempted every step on the cobblestone streets to sweep Chris up and kiss him against a wall, press him into a dark corner.  The drums of the festival seemed to reverberate along his bones, pulling him towards recklessness.  It wasn’t enough to be here with Chris, roaming a town in public under a vague suggestion of a disguise.  He wanted to be seen.  To be known as the man who could do such a thing; hold Chris’ hand, buy him a piece of dark, bitter-edged chocolate, and taste the lingering smoke of it off his tongue.  He wanted not to hide.

 

Darren managed to get most of Chris’ clothes off by the time they stumbled into the bedroom, thwarted only by his pants.  Chris’ skin warmed under his hands, body loose and pliant under his touch, mouth eager against his.  Darren loved it when Chris got like this, easy and relaxed.  His carefully constructed exterior cast aside for a while, replaced by the easy-smiling boy Darren first met.  No guile, no restraint; not frantic in the way they could both get when it had been too long and too much distance and begun to grow between them.

 

The bed was soft under Darren’s knees as he pushed Chris down, still half unmade from that morning.  Chris stretched out, long limbs pale against the sheets as Darren finally got his pants tugged down his legs and tossed aside.  He was beautiful, chest flushed and cheeks pink, his hair mussed and falling across his forehead. Open in a way he so rarely was. Darren’s whole body ached for him.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured into the crease of Chris’ thigh, breathing in the salt of him. His hands roamed the soft skin, utterly familiar and still a wonder to him after all these years.

 

“For what?” Chris’ voice had gone huskier, the words drawn out as his nails scratched through Darren’s hair.

 

“For coming.”

 

Chris’ stomach rose with a slow breath and then this fingers stroked across the sensitive shells of Darren’s ears.  “Well,” he drawled.  “I haven’t yet.”

 

Darren lifted his head to find Chris smirking down at him, eyes dark with mischief.  “Man’s got jokes.”  He nipped the soft skin just below Chris’ belly button, just to make him laugh.  It worked.  Chris’ eyes crinkled, his nose scrunched, and Darren knew he would never know every expression Chris’ dear face could make.  Not in their lifetimes.

 

He crawled up the length of Chris’ body; settled between his accommodating thighs and found his mouth again.  He loved how Chris kissed him, arching up to meet him, unselfconscious in his hunger.  He loved how Chris made him feel wanted, pulled against the heat of his body.  Chris’ hands were restless against his back, fingers dancing along his ribs, finding his sensitive spots unerringly.  Darren wanted to drown in him, in this bed, in this town.  Burrow in deep and never leave, and know that it would have been worth it after all.

 

Chris was breathing heavily when Darren broke away to mouth at his neck, skin flushed and body straining with every touch.  His hips rose and fell.

 

“Forgive me,” Chris whispered, voice wrenched from his soul, “if I haven’t loved you enough.”

 

Darren froze, heart pounding hard against his ribs.  Under his lips Chris’ pulse beat rapidly, the skin grown hot.  Across the heated room the ghostly spectres of distant lanterns shone through the windows.  They were fools, both of them.  

 

“I met you and I loved you,” Darren offered, his forehead pressed to Chris’ chest.  “It was as simple as that.”

 

Chris was still beneath him, panting; a fine tremor shuddered through him.  And then he wasn’t.  He moved quickly, hands grabbing Darren’s shoulders and yanking hard, pulling him up into a rough, needful kiss.

 

Darren couldn’t catch his breath.  His heart felt too full, straining to contain multitudes.  Chris’ arms around him held him tight; his legs squeezed Darren’s hips.  The bed grew too hot, the air in the close room too warm.  It was impossible, he knew, to say just what he meant, to tell Chris every nuance of his waking thoughts.  But Darren could show him this, could tell him this and hope Chris understood that it meant so much more.

 

*******

**Wednesday, March 8th - morning**

 

They slept late, despite the continued beat of the drums, enjoying the extra hours.

 

Chris woke finally to the sun shining full and bright and a cool breeze coming through the cracked open window.  Somewhere in the flat Darren was singing, almost off-key words Chris couldn’t quite catch.  Chris stretched and sighed, shifting languorously against the sheets.  Darren was probably in the kitchen, but Chris didn’t smell smoke, so he was probably fine.

 

It was the last full day.  The carnival would end at precisely 4:00 o’clock the next morning and the world would slip back into its usual routines.  They would pack their bags and return to their lives via different routes.  Darren would stop in New York while Chris headed further on.  They would fly separately.  He should be used to it, he _was_ used to it, but that morning the thought of boarding a plane alone, as if his life wasn’t bound up in another’s, ached in his bones.

 

Chris crawled out of bed and showered quickly.  No point in lingering if Darren was throwing together breakfast.  And besides, he wanted to enjoy this last day as much as possible.  There was no real way of knowing the next time they’d be able to get away somewhere together.

 

Cups for tea were set out on the table with a kettle heating on the stove.  The last of the bread Chris had bought had been sliced and turned into French toast.  The kitchen smelled of butter and vanilla and sharp cinnamon.  And bacon.

 

“I didn’t hear you get up,” Chris commented, shuffling into the kitchen.

 

Darren grinned over his shoulder from his position at the stove.  “Hey. Thought I heard the shower.  You’re just in time.  Was going to come get you.”  He was barefoot in jeans and a soft looking sweater and Chris loved him.

 

“French toast?” Chris asked again coming to stand close by Darren. There was a bowl on the counter with a bit of batter left over and shells in the sink.

 

“Figured we needed to use up these eggs.”

 

Chris pressed a kiss to the top of Darren’s shoulder. “Smells good.”

 

“Me or the food?”

 

“Both.” He smelled of the shared almond soap.  Chris felt languid, loose-limbed and happy. He was determined not to let their impending departure mar the rest of the trip.

 

“Plates are in the cupboard.”

 

Chris grabbed dishes and utensils and set the table. The kettle on the stove whistled sharply; Chris made them both black tea again.  Maple syrup and butter were already set out. The domesticity was not lost on him at all.

 

Presently Darren brought over a plate piled high with steaming toast and another laden with a mound of bacon. Chris was surprised he managed to sleep through all of this, but the last few days had been long.  The last years, too.

 

“Thanks,” he offered, sliding into a chair.

 

Darren shook his head, but he was smiling, soft and sweet.  “Of course.”  The kitchen was warm, inviting, and Darren had a slight blush pinking his cheeks that Chris couldn’t explain.  Some days he was like this.

 

Chris thinks then about a small apartment in Italy, and a little cafe in Boston.  He thinks about the sweet smell of sunscreen in the close confines of a car driving through the middle of the desert.  He thinks about the best eggs he’s ever eaten and the sunshine in Darren’s smile.  He thinks about Darren’s tanned skin against a white sand beach, against the deep blue of the ocean, the way French sounds rolling off Darren’s tongue.

 

He let the moments cascade through his memory, each one precious, each one adding up to something more.  He tried, that day, to not let it worry him that he didn’t know just what it all added up to.

 

“What are we doing today?”

 

Darren shrugged as he smeared butter across another piece of french toast.  “The second _Cortège_ is this afternoon.  We can get dressed back up, see some of that.  Visit the cathedral. Go to St. Alban’s Gate.  Just generally be tourists.  Whatever you want.”

 

What Chris wanted was not to leave, but that wasn’t an option.

 

*******

**Wednesday, March 8th - Basel, Old Town - afternoon**

 

Darren soaked in what was likely the last walk back across one of the bridges into Old Town. Streams of excited people filed past them, heading towards the parade route, eager to get into a good viewing spot.  As much as he wanted to see as much of the carnival as he possibly could, spending the afternoon simply roaming the town with Chris had its own appeal.

 

He could tell Chris wanted to take in some of the history of the place, touch the walls and feel the bricks under his feet.  Chris was that sort of man sometimes, bricks and mortar.  Hard truth and immoveable facts.  What _was_ over what could be.  Darren envied him that, occasionally.

 

“Come on,” Darren took Chris’ hand and pulled him down a narrow side street.  He’d tried to memorize at least parts of the city before they'd arrived, but it was small enough they’d eventually get where they wanted to be.  And besides, the twin spires of the cathedral rose high above all, a prominent beacon to follow.

 

They slipped through crowds of revelers, passing by the bright red facade of City Hall and its sweet frescoes.  Darren felt Chris squeezing his hand whenever someone would press too close, when the crowd would grow a little deep around them before dispersing.  It made his chest hurt, that little touch of fear they both felt.  The ever present worry of discovery; a weight they couldn’t seem to be free of.  It didn’t seem to matter that they were both still wearing their masks.

 

“Here we go,” Darren announced as they rounded the corner of a cobblestone street and stepped into an open square.

 

The red sandstone _Basler Münster_ seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, the colored tiles of its roof cheerful and bright. Out in the Münsterplatz, the square in front of the great cathedral, the grand, complex lanterns were still on display, though they were beginning to be taken away to be lit for the final hours of the carnival.

 

Chris stepped close to him.  “Oh.” He tilted his head back to gaze up.

 

“It was built as a Catholic cathedral,” Darren said, looking more at the stretch of Chris’ throat than the building. “And it took almost 500 years to complete.”

 

Chris glanced at him, smirking.  “You’ve been on Wikipedia again.”

 

Darren grinned. “I was studying.”

 

“Really.”

 

“To impress you.”

 

“Do continue.”

 

“It stands on the site of several pre-existing structures, dating as far back as the first century B.C.E.  It takes time, you know, to build great things.”

 

Chris looked over.  His eyelashes were pale in the sunlight.

 

“The building, it rises and falls. Built and rebuilt.  Something else replaces it over time. But the foundation, that's in the bedrock. That’s dug down deep.” Darren swallowed, hyper aware of Chris staring at him with one of his patented ‘I don’t know what to make of you sometimes’ looks.

 

“Well,” Chris said, the word pulling slowly from his lips. “What's standing now is beautiful, isn’t it? Different than it was before.  Changed.  But still beautiful.”

 

Darren kissed him then, because he could, because Chris’ eyes were open and serious and it wasn’t often he was this forthcoming.  Darren was going to savor what he could.

 

*******

“How did it get to be this late?” Chris wondered aloud.  The sky above was dark, but would be growing light with the coming dawn soon enough.

 

“We’ve passed late,” Darren responded. “And we’re well into early.”  His voice was gruff, a little scratchy.

 

Chris didn’t know quite where they were. He had let Darren lead their steps through the town after the final gathering of the festival.  They had just passed by a beautiful white building with green shutters next to a cobblestone square lined with trees that were just getting ready to spread their foliage.

 

At four o’clock in the morning the Carnival had ended, the drums silenced and the lanterns extinguished, borne away with a final farewell.  The sudden quiet filled every crack in every wall, narrowing the streets even more.

 

They approached an empty overlook; just below the Rhine snaked lazily along.  Steep, steep steps led down to where a few boats rocked gently, waiting to take passengers across the river into the new part of town.   The moment sat, still in the pre-dawn hour, waiting for the sun to creep up the horizon.  A lone fife and drum clique wandered round the square, clearly a little drunk and not quite ready to give up their cheery tunes. They soon faded into the distance and disappeared; the quiet returned.

 

“What should we talk about to fill the silence?” Darren asked.

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Okay.”  There was a pause; the barest hint of color began to creep into the sky.  “But if we _were_ going to talk to fill the silence what would we talk about?”

 

“We could talk about the weather,” Chris proposed.  Sometimes it was best to just indulge Darren.

 

“It’s lovely.”

 

“It is.  We could talk about...a sports team.”

 

“Go 49-ers.” Darren pumped his first.

 

Chris grinned.  “Sure.  That’s a thing.  I suppose we could always talk about an ailment.”

 

“My knee knows when it’s going to rain,” Darren said, flexing his leg as though it ached.

 

“It does,” agreed Chris. He’d found Darren on his couch with his leg propped up and an ice pack around his knee too many times.

 

“And your back hurts when the pollen count is up.”

 

Chris snorted.  “Okay.  I suppose we could talk about--” Chris didn’t get to finish.  Darren put a finger to his lips, silencing him.

 

“Shh, the sun’s coming up.”

 

The sky shifted by degrees, coloring an impossible shade of lavender Chris swore he’d never seen before.  The roof tops of Basel seemed to shimmer in the dawning light. Copper tones reflected in the waters of the Rhine. He wanted to take a photo, but it would never look the same.

 

“Well,” Chris said, but didn’t have anything else to add.

 

Next to him, Darren nodded, and then rested his cheek against Chris’ shoulder.  “Yeah.”

 

His hair smelled like smoke when Chris pressed his lips to the top of his head, and then stayed there.  He closed his eyes and breathed.

 

*******

**Thursday, March 9th - morning**

 

Chris woke, for the first time in days, to near silence.  No drums.  No music.  No cheering.  Just a few birds in a tree and a lone car motoring down the way.

 

He moved sluggishly through the morning - early afternoon really.  Darren guided him into the shower and washed his hair, fingers strong against his scalp, lips soft against the back of his shoulders.  Neither of them said a word.

 

They had flights to catch, bags to pack, lives to return to.  Chris wanted nothing to do with it.  Not when he could have this.

 

“We could stay,” he mumbled, stretched out across the bed while Darren shoved his clothes into his suitcase.  Darren had both of his bags in front of him, sorting shirts and pants into their respective cases.  “Rent a place for a while.”

 

“It would be very hard for you to do press from here,” Darren countered drolly, much too reasonably for him.

 

“Skype.  Skype solves everything.  Wonderful thing about the Internet.”

 

Darren nodded, peering at two socks as though he couldn’t figure out which one belonged to whom.  “Awfully hard for me to film a TV show over Skype.  Technology hasn’t progressed that far.  Yet.  Soon we’ll all be replaced by computers.”

 

Chris wrinkled his nose.  “You’re going to be getting naked with a bunch of guys.”

 

“I was basically naked on a Broadway stage for months.”

 

“Yeah, but not _with_ another guy.”

 

Darren looked up from his attempts to get everything back into their suitcases.  “Your attempts at sounding jealous are _adorable_.”

 

Chris tried to look sternly at Darren, but couldn’t quite.  Not when Darren was holding a pair of underwear and making a series of increasingly ridiculous faces at him from the floor.

 

His flight was first, followed a few hours later by Darren’s.  Darren would spend a few days in New York before coming back to LA, while Chris would go straight on.  That at least was familiar, even if it didn’t always convince everyone.

 

“So I’ve been thinking,” Darren began, zipping up the suitcases and setting them upright.  “Dangerous pastime, I know.”

 

“You said it, not me.”

 

“Hilarious.  But I was thinking that Croatia is supposed to be amazing.”

 

“Croatia.”

 

“Yeah.  There’s this amazing place, some island near Dubrovnik.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Sandy beaches.  Warm water.” He drew out the words leadingly, heat in his voice and his eyes.  “Just you and me and our over private nude beach.”

 

Chris folded his arms, propped his chin on his wrist. “We haven’t even left Switzerland and you want to go to Croatia.”

 

Darren shrugged. “I’m planning ahead.”

 

He was looking to the future, Chris realized.  Perhaps they couldn’t plan years ahead, couldn’t make the big decisions the way others could.  Buy a house.  Lay out a career.  But they could look a few months forward at a time.  The next city.  The next country.  The next trip that took them away from their obligations for a few days.  The half-deserted streets of their lives.

 

There could yet be a time when it was different, time to come and go without indecision.  But it was not yet.

 

“Croatia.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re crazy,” Chris said.

 

Darren simply smiled.

 

*******

  
Chris dropped his suitcase in the bedroom with a heavy sigh.  It was late, he was exhausted.  He smelled like airplane and his stomach grumbled with hunger.  There was a pile of mail on the counter he didn’t even want to look at, and not enough food in the fridge.  Cooper and Brian were happy to see him at least.

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket.  He had two dozen voicemails and an inbox he might end up paying someone else to go through.

 

From the front pocket of his suitcase Chris pulled out the small gold badge from the carnival.  It was cold in his palm, but heavy.  He closed his fingers around it, holding it tightly until it warmed again.

 

His phone buzzed again, insistent.  He unlocked the screen to open the texts.

 

_Miss you already.  Thanks for being crazy with me._

 

Chris smiled, the tightness in his chest eased at the words.  It wouldn’t be so long until he saw Darren again.  They would continue ever onward, as they had done for years, taking what they wanted and paying for it later.

 

He sent back one simple word in response.

 

_Always._


End file.
